"Yas-suh; and wif the lobstuh, suh, Ah venture to sug-gest a nice cold
lil ha'f-pint of Cliquot, Yallah Label? How that strike yo' fancy,
suh? Er mebbe yo'd perfuh--"

"Enough!" said P. Sybarite firmly. "A mere bite and a glass are enough
to sustain life."

"Ain't that the troof?"

Chuckling, the negro waddled away, returned, and offered the guest a
glass brimming with amber-tinted liquid.

Poising the vessel delicately between thumb and forefinger, P.
Sybarite treated himself to one small sip--an instant of lingering
delectation--another sip. So only, it is asserted, must the victim of
the desert begin to allay his burning thirst; with discretion--a sip
at a time--gingerly.

It was years since P. Sybarite had tasted a cocktail artfully
concocted.

Dreamily he closed his eyes halfway. From a point in his anatomy a
degree or two south of his diaphragm, a sensation of the most warm
congratulation began to pervade his famished system: as if (he
thought) his domestic economy were organising a torchlight procession
by way of appropriate celebration.

Tender morsels of lobster smothered in cream and sherry (piping hot)
daintiest possible wafers of bread-and-butter embracing leaves of pale